FLORENCE AND REGINALD.
The hands of all the clocks in Islington that kept correct time marked
the hour of two as Dick stood before the door of 16, Park Street. His
hand was on the knocker, when the door was opened, and Florence drew
him into the house.
"Come upstairs, Dick," she said, panting as if she had been running.
"I saw you from the window, and ran down. Oh, Dick, I am so glad to
see you--so glad, so glad!"
On the landing of the first floor she stopped and kissed him. "Come
in, Dick, come in."
They entered a comfortably furnished room, and by the aid of the
better light he saw that she was struggling to keep back her tears.
"Are you well, Florence?" he asked anxiously.
"In health? Oh, yes," she answered. "But I am in trouble. That is why
I sent for you."
"You did right. I am here to help you. You may rely upon me,
Florence."
"I do, dear. Tell me first. How is my dear mother--and my dear
father--how are they, Dick?"
"You know how they must be, Florence, loving you as they do. They are
in the most terrible trouble about you. Uncle Rob has been hunting all
over London for you. I don't wish to distress you, but they have not
had a moment's rest. It is right that I should tell you this."
"You are quite right, dear. Poor mother and father! It cuts me to
the heart, but I could not act in any other way. You shall judge,
Dick--you shall judge--and if you condemn me----"
"Don't give way, Florence."
"I won't. I will be brave. I have been brave to do what I have done.
Such a cruel thing, such a cruel, cruel thing!--but it was my
duty--my duty! Oh, Dick, if you knew what love was, you would know of
what it was capable. I may speak to you, dear, as a sister to a
brother, may I not?"
"Yes, Florence, as a sister to a brother," he said, quietly.
"I can understand now so many things to which I was blind a year
ago--what love will lead a woman to do, how it can harden the
heart----"
"Harden the heart!" he cried.
"Was my heart not hardened," she said, piteously, "when I stole away
like a thief from the parents who loved and cherished me, knowing, as
I knew, that I was bringing misery upon them? Was my heart not
hardened when, at the call of love, I trod love under my feet? My
prayer was that my separation would not be long, and that, when I was
free to speak, they would forgive me and take me to their hearts
again. But what can repay them for the suffering I have inflicted upon
them--how shall I atone for the wound my own hand has dealt?"
"They will not think of it, Florence, if all is well with you, if,
when you are free to speak, they approve of what you have done."
"Do you doubt it, Dick?" she asked, her hand at her heart.
"No--on my soul, no!" he cried. "I could never doubt it--I----" He
came to a sudden stop as his eyes fell upon the hand that lay at her
breast. She saw the earnest gaze, but did not remove her hand. "That
ring, Florence!"
"My wedding ring, Dick," she said, and pressed her lips upon it.
"You are married!"
"I am married, dear."
"To Mr. Reginald?"
"Yes; but that is not the name I bear."
He covered his face with his hands. He had long known that she was
lost to him, but only at this moment did he fully realise it. And not
alone that. He was overwhelmed by the thought of the damning evidence
in his pocket, a virtual accusation of murder made by the murdered man
himself against his son, against Florence's husband! An ashen face
confronted her as he took his hands from his eyes.
"Dick!" she cried.
"It is nothing, dear, nothing." His eyes wandered around the room.
"You are not living here alone?"
"No, Dick. My husband is in that room. Come and see him. Tread softly,
softly!"
She opened the door, and he followed her into the room, and there, in
bed, lay the son of Samuel Boyd, the man lying dead in his house in
Catchpole Square.
"The doctor has given him a sleeping draught," said Florence, in a low
tone. "He has been very ill, and no one to nurse him but I." With
tender care she smoothed the pillow, and drew the counterpane over his
shoulders, then stooped and kissed him. When she raised her face it
was illumined. Love shone there, and a divine pity. There are memories
which dwell in the mind till the hour of death, and this revelation of
devoted love would dwell in Dick's mind till his life was ended.
"Is he changed much?" she asked.
"He is worn and thin," Dick replied. "Has he been ill long?"
"A good many days, but thank God! the doctor says he will get well. If
he sleeps till eight or nine o'clock it will help his recovery
greatly."
They re-entered the sitting room. Dick took a chair with its back to
the light, and each looked at the other in silence awhile. Florence
was the first to speak.
"Where shall I commence, Dick?"
"At the beginning," he replied. "Hide nothing from me if you are sure
you can trust me."
"I _am_ sure. There is no shame in an honest love, dear."
"None, Florence.
"It is eighteen months ago that Reginald and I first met. Mother and I
were spending an evening with a friend when he came in and was
introduced to us as Mr. Reginald, A few days afterwards we met him in
the street, and he walked a little way with us, and asked if he might
call and see us; and soon he became a regular visitor. How does love
come, Dick? It is a mystery, but I know I used to think a great deal
of him when he was away, and once or twice when we expected him and he
did not come I felt unhappy. When I heard his voice I was happy again,
and then I knew I loved him. One day he spoke to me, and my heart was
filled with happiness when he told me he loved me. He said he feared
he was wrong in speaking to me of love, for there was a secret in his
life which he did not wish to disclose for a time; and he asked, if we
entered into an engagement, that I should say nothing of it to my
parents without his consent. I loved him, Dick, and trusted him, and I
consented to everything he proposed. So I had a lover, and no one at
home knew anything of it. Do not misjudge Reginald; he is the soul of
honour, and I would as soon doubt the goodness of God as I would doubt
the good faith and honour of the man I love. Do I hear him moving?"
She rose, and stepped softly to the bedroom. Returning, she said,
"No, he is sleeping peacefully. Oh, Dick, dear, you would pity him if
you knew how he has suffered, and how little he deserves it. It is two
months to-day that he spoke very seriously to me, in consequence of
something you said. You will remember it, Dick. You were in a
situation as clerk, and one night you told us that you were acting as
clerk to Mr. Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square, and that you intended to
give up your situation because of the bad character he bore. He was a
money-lender, you said, and had brought ruin on a number of poor
people. Mother didn't like the idea of your throwing up your
situation, but when you asked her if she would advise you to stop with
such a man she said, no, she wouldn't, and that Mr. Samuel Boyd was a
rascal. I didn't think anything of it at the time except that I was
sorry for you. Reginald recalled that conversation, and warned me to
prepare for a disclosure that might cause me to shrink from him. He
had kept his name concealed, he said, because he was ashamed of his
father, who was no other than the Mr. Samuel Boyd of whom such hard
words were spoken at home. He told me of his life; how during his
boyhood he was kept at school, and then sent abroad to learn
languages; how he knew nothing of his father's doings, who described
himself as a financier; how, his education being completed, his father
summoned him home, and how, while he lived in Catchpole Square, he was
shocked at the discovery of the kind of business his father was
engaged in. It was so revolting to Reginald that he spoke his mind
freely; they had quarrels, and the end of it was that he left his
father's house, determined to get his own living in a more honest way.
Wasn't it noble of him, Dick?"
"It was what an honourable man would do."
"When Reginald had told me all this, he said he was sure that if it
came to the knowledge of mother and father that he was Mr. Samuel
Boyd's son they would forbid him the house; and he begged me to give
him a proof of my love by consenting to a marriage at a registrar's
office, and to keep it a secret till he was in a position to furnish a
home for me. I loved him so that I consented, and I promised, too, to
keep it secret till he gave me permission to speak to mother and
father. So we went one morning to a registrar's office, and were
married. I wasn't absent from home more than two hours, and no one
suspected the step we had taken. I can't say I was happy; keeping a
secret of that kind from parents so kind and dear made me appear in my
own eyes very ungrateful, but Reginald was so hopeful that I bore up,
and prayed for the day to arrive when we could ask forgiveness. Do you
condemn me, Dick? Do you condemn Reginald? Put yourself in his place,
and say whether, if you loved a girl as he loves me, you could bear
the idea of losing her?"
"I would lose my heart's blood first," said Dick. "But it was hard for
Uncle and Aunt Rob."
"Yes, it was hard, and it often made me very wretched, but I couldn't
break my promise to Reginald; that would have been a bad commencement
for a young wife. The worst of it was that he wasn't getting along
very well. 'I shall be getting desperate presently,' he said, 'unless
things take a turn for the better. Our little home seems farther off
than ever.' I cheered him up, and said there was plenty of time before
us, and that I was sure there was some good luck in store for him. So
things went on till a fortnight ago, when he said he was afraid he had
done wrong in persuading me to a secret marriage. 'But I've an idea,'
he said, 'and whatever comes of it I'll carry it out. Don't ask me
what it is; it's something I must keep to myself.' Dick," said
Florence, breaking off, "that night at home when you and mother were
speaking against Mr. Samuel Boyd, did you do so purposely because
Reginald was with us?"
"Yes, I spoke purposely," he answered.
"Reginald said you did, and that you looked as if you had a suspicion
of him. But you didn't know he was Mr. Boyd's son?"
"I did know it," said Dick.
"Why did you keep it to yourself?" she asked, with a troubled look.
"It was for your sake, Florence," he answered quietly. "It wasn't for
me to pry into your secrets."
"Thank you, dear," said Florence, putting her hand into his with a
tender smile, "it was like you."
"Did Reginald carry out his idea, Florence?"
"I can't tell you; he said nothing more about it to me. Last Saturday
I received a letter from him saying he wasn't very well, and couldn't
come to mother's on Sunday, and asking me not to call and see him till
I heard from him again. What day of the month is this, Dick?"
"The 7th. Last Saturday was the 2nd," said Dick, and thought, "The day
after he went to his father's house late at night, the day after Abel
Death went there in the night in the hope that Samuel Boyd would take
him back again, _the day after the murder!_"
"Yes, Dick, the 7th. I didn't go to Reginald either on that day or on
Sunday. You can imagine how miserable I was. On Monday morning I
received another short letter, in which he asked me again not to come
and see him. The next letter came on Tuesday night when mother and I
were sitting together."
"That was the night of the great fog. Aunt Rob told me you went out in
the afternoon in the thick of it. What did you go out for?"
"I came here to inquire after Reginald. The landlady said he wasn't
well, and that she had just posted a letter to me from him. 'May I go
up and see him?' I asked, and she answered, calling me 'miss,' that he
had given orders that no one was to be allowed up, and that when I had
read the letter I might know what to do. I was far from happy, Dick,
as I walked home through the fog, and a great deal unhappier when the
night postman brought the letter, for there was something in it--I
hardly know what--that made me feel I ought to go to him. I couldn't
ask advice of mother because of my promise to Reginald, which I
wouldn't break; and even if anyone had advised me against what I
believed was right I shouldn't have listened to it. I went to my
bedroom early, and so did mother, and I got out of the house at ten
o'clock and came straight here. In the streets I put on my wedding
ring, which I had not worn at home, of course, only putting it on and
looking at it when I was alone in my room, and I took care that the
landlady should see it when I told her I was a relation of Reginald's
and had come to nurse him. It was time I did, for he was wandering in
his mind, and hadn't called in a doctor because he couldn't afford to
pay for one. Thank God I had a little money in my purse, and I've got
thirty pounds in the Post Office Savings Bank which I've given notice
to take out. Reginald didn't know me, and I was in the most dreadful
trouble about him. All his wandering thoughts were about me and his
father, and I thought what a shocking thing it would be if he were to
die without seeing him. Oh, Dick, my heart was breaking, but I wanted
to do what was right, and I thought it likely, if Mr. Boyd saw
Reginald in the state he was, that his heart would soften towards the
poor boy. I tried to get at his wishes. Bending over him I said, 'Do
you want to see your father?' I said it three or four times, and then
he said, 'Yes, yes, my father, Catchpole Square. The end house in
Catchpole Square. My father--my father!' I called the landlady in, and
asked her if she would stop up with Reginald while I went to fetch
some one he wanted to see. She consented, and I went out. It was very
late when I got to the house in Catchpole Square, and I knocked and
knocked without anyone answering me. 'He can't be there,' I thought,
and I was creeping out of the Square when two men came into it. One of
them had a bull's eye lamp in his hand, and I saw they were policemen.
My anxiety then was to get away from them, but they saw me and called
out to me to stop, and laid hands on me. How I escaped I don't know,
but I tore myself away and ran for my life, and in a minute or two I
was alone and free. Then I managed to find my way back here, and sent
the good landlady to bed, telling her that the person I had gone to
fetch was out of town. Yesterday morning early I sent for a doctor,
and he said that Reginald would have died if he hadn't been called in,
but that there were hopes for him. Oh, how I thanked God for the good
news! and how grateful I was when Reginald last night opened his eyes
and recognised me! He didn't blame me, poor boy, but spoke so sweetly
of everybody! I told him how I had run away from home, and I begged
him to allow me to end this mystery and to make things right with
father and mother. He thought a little, and said, 'Send for your
cousin Dick, and do what he advises.' I cried for joy, and I sat down
at once and wrote to you. Now you know all, dear. Will you go and tell
them everything, and ask them to forgive poor Reginald and me?"
"I will, Florence," said Dick, "the moment I go from here. It will be
a happiness to me to relieve their suspense. But I want to ask you a
question or two first."
"Yes, Dick."
"How long has Reginald been ill?"
"Since Saturday."
"Has he been in bed all the time?"
"Yes."
"May I go into his room?"
"What for? If he's asleep"--she opened the door and peeped in--"yes,
he's asleep. You won't disturb him, Dick?"
"No, I will not speak to him. I've got my reasons, Florence."
"Very well, dear," she said, her eyes following him as he stepped
softly to the bedroom, and closed the door behind him.
His purpose was to examine Reginald's boots, and he saw them the
moment he entered the room. Reginald having been in bed since Saturday
they could not have been worn since his visit to Catchpole Square on
Friday night. Dick took them up, and discerned on the soles traces of
the waxed paper which Samuel Boyd had set as a trap. With his penknife
he carefully scraped off these tell-tale evidences of the visit, and
returned to Florence.
"Do you know," he asked, "when Reginald saw his father last?"
"No," she answered, "it must have been a long time ago."
He did not disabuse her. "He is sleeping quite calmly," he said. "Did
the doctor say when he would be able to get up?"
"In two or three days, he told me, if the opiate he gave him had the
desired effect. It _is_ having it, Dick."
"No doubt of that. By the way, Florence, in your haste to escape from
the policemen in Catchpole Square did you lose or drop anything?"
"How clever you are to think of it, Dick! I lost a handkerchief."
"With your name on it?"
"Yes. All my handkerchiefs are marked. I think I had it in my hand
when I was in the Square, but I can't be sure. It is of no
consequence. There are plenty of girls named Florence. How did you cut
your hand?"
"With some broken glass. _That's_ of no consequence. It is only a
scratch." The exertion and haste he had made in scraping the wax off
Reginald's boots had started the blood.
"Let me bind it up. Oh, Dick, you are our good angel! Dear Dick!
Reginald likes you so much! But he had an idea that you didn't care
for him."
"I care for him very much, Florence."
"And do you know," she said, almost gaily, so happy was she in the
prospect of Reginald's speedy recovery, and of removing the cloud of
misery she had brought upon her parents, "he had another idea--but I
won't mention that."
"Yes, do, dear. Remember, you are to hide nothing from me."
"Well, he had an idea that you were fond of me."
"He is right. I am very fond of you, Florence."
"I know that, dear. But in another way, he meant. You understand."
"Yes, dear cousin, I understand."
"I told him that we had been brought up together, and that he wasn't
to be jealous of my dear cousin Dick. Foolish of him, wasn't it?"
"Very foolish. How could such an idea have got into his head?"
"Well--perhaps--it--was--natural," she said, with an arch pause
between each word. Ah, if she could have read his heart at that
moment! But he did not betray himself. "There! I am sure your hand
must feel more comfortable. I hope your feelings won't change towards
me now that I'm a married woman."
"My feelings will never change, Florence, dear."
"A married woman! How strange and beautiful it sounds! To think of the
time when we were playing together as little children! Such changes,
Dick, such changes! It is almost as if we were not ourselves. My dear
cousin! Do you think dear mother and father will come to me?"
"I will answer for them. Now, I must go. Every moment saved is a
moment of happiness gained to them."
"Go, Dick, go quickly."
They kissed, and he was gone. When he was in the street he looked up
at the window, and saw her standing there, looking out after him. She
threw the window open, and kissed her hand to him. He returned the
fond sign and hurried on.
"Steady, Dick, steady," he said.